“We found it in the river, fifty yards or so downstream from the body. It’s possible the current dragged it along the bottom.”
“No fingerprints, I suppose?” Kincaid asked, forgetting his role as observer in his interest.
“No, just a few wee smudges.”
“Had the gun been wiped before being submerged?”
“It’s difficult to say, Mr. Kincaid.” Ross gave him a quelling glance. “But we can be sure that the gun used to kill Donald Brodie came from this house—”
“You can’t be certain,” interrupted Gemma. “There’s no way to get an absolute ballistics match on a shotgun—”
“Inspector James.” Ross scowled at her. “I find it verra unlikely that this gun just happened to end up in the river at the same time Donald Brodie was shot with a different small-bore gun.” He turned back to John. “Mr. Innes, you’ll need to come into the station to make a formal
identification. You’ll also need to do a much better job of accounting for your time on Sunday morning.”
John stared at him blankly. “But I’ve told you. I went to buy eggs—”
“You didn’t arrive at the farm shop until seven o’clock, after the police had been called to the scene, and yet, according to your wife, you left home some time before Inspector James discovered the body.”
“No!” Louise took a step towards John. “I said I wasn’t sure of the time. I didn’t look at the clock—”
“How could ye not see the clock, Mrs. Innes?” Ross looked pointedly at the large-faced kitchen clock mounted on the wall above the table. “Especially when your business depends on keeping a schedule in the mornings?”
“Don’t ye badger her,” said John, his fists clenching.
“It’s nothing to do with Louise. I took a wee walk along Loch an Eilean, if ye must know. There’s no crime in that.”
“Then why didn’t ye see fit to mention it?” Ross asked.
“I didna think anything of it.” John appeared to be struggling for nonchalance. Louise was staring at him, her delicate brows lifted in surprise. “I often go there when I’ve an errand at the estate shop,” John added.
“Did anyone see you?”
“I didna notice. Wait— There was a couple walking their dog, an Alsatian.”
“That’s very helpful of you, Mr. Innes,” said Ross, with scathing sarcasm. “I’m sure we’ll have no trouble verifying that. In the meantime, we’ve requested a warrant to have our forensics team go over your car—a Land Rover, isn’t it? But if you were to demonstrate your cooperation by turning it over voluntarily, it would make things easier for everyone concerned.”
As John glanced at him in mute appeal, Kincaid began to realize just how awkward a position he and Gemma had got themselves into. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded at John. Ross would have the car searched re-gardless, and John would do himself no good by trying to obstruct it.
“All right,” said John, with a show of bravado. “Go ahead. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“Good. That’s verra sensible of you.” Ross looked more weary than pleased. “Now, why don’t ye come with us to the station, and we’ll send a constable along to take charge of the car.”
“Wait.” Louise stepped forward. “I want a word with my husband, Chief Inspector.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Innes, I’d rather you didna do that until he’s amended his statement. If you have something different to tell us, I’d suggest you do it now.”
Louise hesitated, glancing at John, then back at Ross.
“No. I— It was nothing.”
Sergeant Munro gathered the photos together, then stepped back, gesturing at John to precede him.
As John reached the door, he called back, “The soup—
Louise, you’ll see to the soup?”
“Soup?” Louise wailed as the door swung shut. “How can he think of soup when—”
A babble of voices broke out as everyone began to comment, drowning her words. Kincaid put a hand on her arm and guided her into a quieter corner of the room.
“Louise,” he said softly, “do you know what John was doing yesterday morning—other than not walking around Loch an Eilean, whatever that is.”
“It’s a local scenic spot, near the farm shop. John’s never mentioned walking there.” She looked baffled.
“I’ve no idea where he could have been—I didn’t realize,
until the chief inspector said, that he was away for so long.” Frowning, she added hesitantly, “But there have been other times lately when he’s disappeared without telling me, or been gone a good bit longer than an errand required.” She looked up at Kincaid, color suffusing her fair skin. “And once or twice, I’ve awakened in the night and found him gone. I thought— But it can’t have anything to do with Donald.”
Kincaid was trying to think of some way to reassure her, a difficult proposition, as he had no idea what John Innes had been getting up to, when he realized Gemma had followed the detectives and John Innes from the room.
“Louise, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to catch Gemma up.
We’ll talk later, I promise.”
He dashed through the house, and as he burst out the front door, he found his suspicions confirmed. John was safely tucked into the unmarked car with Sergeant Munro, and Gemma was standing in the drive, arguing with the chief inspector.
As Kincaid came up to them, he heard her say, “You can’t rule out the possibility that someone outside the house had access to the gun—or that the gun was taken for another reason.”
Ross seemed to be making a monumental effort to keep his temper in check. “And what reason would that be?”
“What if someone wanted to cast suspicion on John, or on the household in general?”
“Who?” Ross barked.
“I don’t know,” countered Gemma, without the least sign of being intimidated. “But you can’t ignore Alison Grant and Callum MacGillivray. They both had motive, and neither had an alibi. And what about Tim Cavendish?”
Ross shook his head in disbelief. “Do ye want your friend’s husband to be guilty of murder, lassie?”
“No, of course not!” said Gemma, sounding less sure of herself. She turned to Kincaid, as if for confirmation.
“I just want—”
“Ye canna protect them all, lass. You must see that.
Someone fired that shotgun into Donald Brodie’s chest, and the odds are that it was someone in this house. Ye canna hide from the fact. Why don’t ye take Mrs.
Cavendish and go back to London? Ye’ll be weel out of it.”
“I—”
Whatever Gemma had meant to say was cut off by the ringing of Kincaid’s phone. “Sorry,” he said, turning away as he slipped the phone from his belt. It was about time Doug Cullen rang him back.
But it was not Cullen, and as Kincaid listened, his surroundings faded until he was aware of nothing but the cold dread squeezing his chest.
“No,” he said at last. “No. Don’t do anything yet. Let me make a few calls. I’ll ring you back.”
As he hung up, he felt the feather brush of Gemma’s fingers against his arm. “Is it Tim?” she asked, clearly alarmed by his tone. “What’s happened? Has he—”
“No.” Kincaid forced himself to breathe, to meet her eyes. “That was Wesley. It’s Kit. He’s disappeared.”
Chapter Sixteen
And I remember home and the old time, The winding river, the white morning rime, The autumn robin by the riverside, That pipes in the grey eve.